


Mon beau garçon

by Nangijala



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:41:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nangijala/pseuds/Nangijala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanfic set in modern time, with Porthos as protagonist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon beau garçon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi fellow musketeerfans! I just wanted to let you know that this is my first fic ever, so if there is any mistakes please tell me. Also, english isn't my native language.  
> If you like this, please tell me! I also appreciate constructive criticism.

Porthos sat alone in a booth at some bar. The small, dark room was filled with smoke from several lit cigarettes. It was starting to get rather late, and most people were starting to take their leave, but not him. He grabbed his glass and took two big gulps of the cheap wine. It filled his mouth with a sour and bitter taste, but as the burning liquid ran though his throat, it filled his veins with a warmth that he found comforting.   
He was starting to get quite dizzy. 

He didn’t usually drink alone, normally the other three or at least Aramis would accompany him, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted to be alone. It had taken him several whitewashes and one lie before he had gotten rid of Aramis.   
Porthos was a rather good liar, because Aramis would never had left him alone if he knew that his best friend was troubled. Good Aramis. 

He was starting to get really drunk now. It was not easily accomplished, but after all he had finished almost two bottles of wine now, and quite a lot of rum. Or was it three bottles? He wasn’t sure. He emptied the glass of its last contents and then poured it full again. At least he was still at the stage where he had the manners of using a glass while drinking. 

Porthos started to feel slightly nauseous. The room felt too small, too crowded. He needed some fresh air. He hastily rose from his chair. Everything was spinning. Porthos stumbled out, knocking down a chair in his inelegant movement. While sober, he was surprisingly lithesome to be a man of his intimidating size. But now, the alcohol had numbed all of his usual grace. 

Porthos grabbed his packet of cigarettes from his pocket in his marine blue jacket.Long Marlboro red, just as always. He lit one up, and took a deep drag.   
He held the smoke in his lungs for some time, and then exhaled.   
The white smoke filled the dark alley outside the small bar. He still felt queasy.  
Porthos took another drag. The smoke lay as a thick fog in the narrow alley. He barley saw five meters ahead. How could one cigarette possibly give off such amounts of smoke? 

A sudden weak moaning caught the attention of his drunken mind. It came from behind of him. Porthos clumsily turned around and stumbled in the direction of the sound.  
He noticed a small pile of cloth laying a few meters ahead of him. When he got closer, he saw that it was a beggar, leaning against the wall. Her sickly thin limps was covered in filthy rags. The tatters hid most of her features, but Porthos till saw the dark colour of her skin, the long scar on her cheek, the slightly upturned nose…  
His heart started pounding. No, it couldn’t be! It couldn’t be her!   
She lifted her head, and looked him straight in the eyes. Two dark pairs of eyes met each other. 

Porthos world had collapsed. It wasn’t possible. She was dead.   
She had been dead for a long time now, so long that he no longer could picture her face in his mind. He had cursed himself when he realised it.

But now, when she was right before him, her intense stare piercing through his confused mind, there was no doubt. It was her. 

Porthos fell to his knees, his legs no longer functioning. Tears streamed down his face, but he wasn’t aware if it.   
She lifted a scrawny hand and touched the scar that reached across his left eye, from his forehead to his cheekbone. The only scar on his body that he didn’t know how he had got. She slowly wiped the tears of his cheeks. 

‘’Mon beau garçon…’’ She whispered, her voice just as soft as it used to be when she sang him to sleep when he was little.   
‘’Maman…?’’   
Porthos was in chock, unable to either think clearly or move.   
‘’Porthos…’’ She murmured slowly. ‘’I could not be more proud of you.’’

She started coughing. At first calmly, but then she lost control and began to cough harsher and harsher. Her thin body trembled as she grasped for air.   
Porthos finally managed to recuperate and regain control of his body.   
‘’Maman!’’ he screamed in terror. He pulled her into a fumbling embrace, not knowing what to do. Her hard coughs started to get wheezing. She began coughing blood. It splashed on her face, and on Porthos’ as he tried to hold her still.   
Her body shook uncontrollable, and her eyes were filled with panic. 

‘’I’m sorry Maman, I’m so sorry!’’ He cried hysterically. 

Something hit him in the head, and everything went dark. 

 

Porthos woke up. He was lying on the muddy alley ground, feeling sick to the stomach and with his head pounding like he had been run over by a bus. It was still dark. He crawled up, and emptied his stomach on the dirty ground.   
It was just a dream.


End file.
